


I will carry the sparks of you in my heart

by goldenratio



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Compliant with all Harry Potter books, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter/Sherlock cross-over, No Season 3 Spoilers, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Not compliant with Sherlock season 3, Post-Reichenbach, Rare-pairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenratio/pseuds/goldenratio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before, before magic and school and love and life and war and loss, before all that, her name was Mary Morstan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Before, before magic and school and love and life and war and loss, before all that, her name was Mary Morstan.

The first time it happens, she is 7 years old. Sean Brown, the boy who has been bullying her mercilessly at school, has stolen her favorite book and won’t give it back. She screams and she cries and he just smirks and laughs as he holds it above his head. And she wishes and wants and reaches and then there is a tingle, running down her arm, and she knows. She pulls with her mind and the book soars neatly out of his grip. She clutches it to her chest. He stares at her, wide-eyed, and backs away. He doesn’t talk to her for the rest of the year. It scares her, a little, this strange power. 

She tries and tries, but she can never quite replicate that same feeling. After a while, it fades into the background, just another odd quirk that she can never quite figure out. It nags her, like a raised scar in the most inconvenient of places. She wants to be a scientist when she grows up, wants to know the why of everything. It irritates her that she can’t know this why of herself, something so fundamental. 

It all becomes clear when a stern, imperious woman sweeps up to her mam’s front porch. Her name is Minerva McGonagall and she answers all the questions that never quite made sense. Her parents don’t want to let her go, but reluctantly, they concede it’s for the best. They’re practical folk, above all else.

Hogwarts is a revelation. She thinks that she will never feel at home in this grand, marvelous castle with its roaming staircases and whispering portraits. Still, it feels right to her, the way nothing else ever has. She’s sorted into Gryffindor. She immerses herself in the classes, the theory, the wandwork, the magic. Her best friend is Gwen, in Ravenclaw House, and she runs with the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan and Patricia, her dorm-mate, more often than not. 

In her third year, Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts. Of course, she’s heard of him, the child who defeated Voldemort when he was just a babe in swaddling clothes. It’s quite another to meet him in person, a small little boy with bright green eyes and a shock of dark hair. He’s nothing like she might have expected. He’s careless, in the way of boys of a certain age, but kind, and a little broken. They cross paths only on occasion, but they share a house; her friends are Fred and George Weasley. It’s hard to avoid knowing of him as the years tick past and the stories and rumors and news swirling around him only continue to grow wilder and wilder. 

For the most part though, she is happy. She flourishes. In her 5th year, she’s made a prefect. At their first meeting, she meets the blue-gray eyes of dreamy Wayne Hopkins, the Gryffindor Head Boy, and is instantly lost. She’s sure he’ll never notice her, mousy little Mary, but to her delight, he asks her for a date scarcely a month later. It’s not long before they’re a couple. Later, she’ll look back fondly on this year. Even the news of a convicted murderer on the loose does little to cast a pall over this time.

That all changes at the end of her 6th year, when Harry Potter appears on the Quidditch Green, clutching the Triwizard Cup in one hand and the dead body of Cedric Diggory in the other. That was the moment Mary felt her idyllic world beginning to crack, the chilling specter of Voldemort seeping through. 

The cracks widen as her 7th year begins. Umbridge is a joke. Even so, as a prefect, she’s reluctant to join the DA, but the Weasley twins convince her. She knows it was the right choice after the first meeting. She’s aware she’s choosing sides, but really, what choice does she have? Wayne doesn’t like to talk about it, but she knows that this peace cannot continue. He’s been recruited into the Order, already, though he’s only a junior Auror. She studies hard, watches over the other students, practices Defence, avoids Umbridge, takes her NEWTs, graduates. 

After she graduates, she accepts the Weasley twins’ offer to help manage their burgeoning shop. She’s not sure what she wants to do, really, and with the whispers of war on the horizon, she figures that it’s best to remain close to the action. At the same time, she is formally inducted into the Order of the Phoenix. She meets with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who looks grave and worn. 

She sits across him at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. “We need safe houses,” he tells her. “War is coming, and we need to be prepared.” He pauses. “You’re Muggleborn, aren’t you? It will be dangerous.” 

She looks him straight in the eye. “If Voldemort wins, there won’t be any safe places left. I’d rather be here.” 

He smiles grimly. “Well, I certainly won’t turn you away. We’re going to need all the help that we can get.” 

She’s Muggleborn, so it’s easy enough for her to set up a bank account and to buy a small house on the very outskirts of London. Order-funded, all of it, and she takes the precaution of registering everything under the official Muggle identity that Kingsley covertly arranges for her. She picks her name. Molly, for her childhood best friend. Hooper, her mother’s maiden name. 

Bill Weasley visits and helps her expand and ward the house—against Muggles and wizards. He teaches her how to invert the wards—a neat little trick. There’s a Fidelius charm, of course. Kingsley is the Secret-Keeper. The Order funnels her money, which she carefully exchanges, records, and deposits. She still goes to work in Diagon Alley, but she is careful to keep a low profile. She still has tea with Gwen every two weeks, but only in Gwen’s flat. Gwen works in the Department of Mysteries, and she too has been recruited into the Order. Hers is a different role. That, however, is something they never discuss.

She stays with Wayne at his cramped little flat, on the rare occasions Wayne can get away from Auror training. It’s not as bad as it used to be, now that he’s a senior trainee. He actually has the occasional weekend off. One day, he brings her a tiny calico kitten, quarter kneazle. “I thought it would be nice for you to have some company,” he tells her. While I’m gone, remains unsaid. She names him Toby.

And so, the days creep past, as the world holds its breath.


	2. Chapter 2

The world as she knows it ends at the close of a brilliant day, as guests twirl under the late summer sky at the Weasley-Delacour wedding. Mary is dancing with Wayne, his arms tight around her when she glimpses a flash of silver overhead. Everything seems to happen in slow motion. They turn, and the silver gleam becomes a lynx.

_“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”_

She can feel the blood drain from her face. All around them, people are silent, confused, until a scream pierces the air. Wayne yanks her close. “Mary, Mary, you need to go, back to the house!”

“But—!”

“Just go!”

As she turns on the spot, she can see cloaked figures appearing in the crowd. She wants to stay, but she’s no Auror. And worse, she’s Muggleborn.

Inside the Apparition point, she collapses against the wall, heart pounding. She tips her head back and just focuses on breathing. She can’t believe—the Ministry fallen? Ever since she joined the DA—no, ever since the Triwizard tournament, she has known this day would come. It’s one thing to know it logically. It’s quite another for it to be the here and now.

Eventually, she picks herself up from the floor. She makes tea and sits until her hands stop shaking. Toby leaps into her lap, meowing. She pets him, automatically.

It’s another four hours before the silver form of Wayne’s lion Patronus glides into the kitchen. _Safe. Stay where you are. Be there when I can._ A band of tension finally loosens from her heart. Still, her sleep is restless.

She doesn’t set an alarm. No point, she thinks. She can hardly go to work now. Instead, she cooks, she cleans, she takes out her irritation in the practice room, throwing jinx after jinx at the hapless targets. She thinks she is going to go spare without information. It’s near sundown when she hears the faint pop of Apparation and Wayne comes into the kitchen. She runs to him, and they hold each other for a minute, just breathing.

“Are you all right? What’s happened? Who were they?” He looks unharmed, though exhausted.

Wayne sighs. “Death Eaters and the ministry, but really it’s all the same now I suppose. They searched the Burrow and kept everyone there for ages. Most people were able to Disapparate, thank Merlin.”

“What did they want you for?”

“Questions about Harry, of course. As far as we know he’s disappeared completely.” He looks grim. “They also forced their way into every Order-connected house that they know of. Thank Merlin they didn’t come here.”

Mary feels her throat constrict. The Fidelius held. “Is…everyone all right?”

“No one died, but they burned down Diggle’s house and used the Cruciatus on Tonks’s family—”

Mary gasps. “No!”

“Yes. The Death Eaters have the full power of the Ministry now. They can do…whatever they want and say that it’s sanctioned by the government. It’s…bad. The worst is no one knows. Officially, Scrimgeour resigned.

“And Mary…”

He shows her the Daily Prophet.

“Muggle-born Register. The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called ‘Muggl-borns,’ the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.”

She continues to read, though she feels like her stomach has been filled with lead weights. When she reaches the end of the article, she lets the paper fall to the table. “So this is it, then.”

He looks exhausted. “Yes. We knew it was coming.”

She crosses the kitchen to him, leans against his chest, tucks her head under his chin. His arms enfold her, automatically. They stand for a long moment, just breathing, before she tips her head up. They kiss, slowly, sharing breaths for long moments, until he presses his tongue into her mouth. She welcomes him, moaning quietly, until he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers. She takes his earlobe between her teeth. “Please.” He kisses her again, once, before scooping her up into his arms. In her bedroom, they undress each other, until they lie together on the bed, skin pressed against skin. She wraps her legs around him as he works his fingers into her. Her head tips back, as she gasps for breath. “Please,” she breathes, “Please.” He presses into her, and they kiss, moaning against each other as their hips undulate and jerk and stutter. She tries to forget, tries to only think about this, the two of them, together.

After, they lie together, breathing. Mary closes her eyes, savors the warmth, the shivers of pleasure that still trickle through her veins. He kisses her again. “Mary.”

“Hm?”

“I—you know the work I do, the work we do. It’s…dangerous.” She remains silent, instead burrowing more deeply into his body.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I’ll make it through this war—”

She doesn’t want to hear it. “Wayne, no…”

“What I’m trying to say is—you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Everyday that I can see you, hear your laugh, hold you in my arms, is a good day. I would lie here with you, forever, if I could. The war doesn’t change any of it. But, I just want you to know. I don’t ever want to be parted from you. Just. Marry me. I love you, I love you more than anything. I want you to be mine, forever. This isn’t what I had hoped for—but I don’t want anything—to happen and have you never know that I would, I will dedicate all my days to you.”

“Oh. I. Yes. Yes, a thousand times, yes.” Mary props herself above him, takes in his shining eyes, his loving smile, and tries to memorize everything about him, about them, about this moment. She wants to keep this memory crystallized forever, to be held as a talisman against the bad days, the cold and lonely and frightening days ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

Wayne gives her a modest diamond ring, set in a platinum band. It’s really more than he can afford on his meager salary, but he swears to her that as soon as he can (when the war is over) he’ll buy her a larger diamond. Mary doesn’t really mind too much. She’s not one for showy items anyway.

She wears it around her throat. Rings, they tell too much. Necklaces can be better hidden, and indeed she often wears it transfigured as a pendant. Wayne whispers to her, curled up in the sanctuary of their bed, that he wants to be married now, already. He doesn’t want to wait until the war is over. But they both know that is an impossibility. 

Mary remembers reading about the last war during school, flipping through A Brief History of the Voldemort War and coming to a photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. They had stood in ragged ranks, faces set and determined, straight and militant in their bearing, though they could have hardly been older than she was now. She was perhaps 11, or 12 then. She remembers how she felt secretly thrilled at how grown up and exciting and dramatic they all were, and wasn’t it romantic how they were all married? Now though, on the cusp of another war, she knows all too well the worry that lines their faces, in the shadowing of their eyes and tightened mouths. She knows now how war can fuel love and romance and marriages, how it can push two people together in a desperate bid for some joy even in the spectre of war. In her mind, the photo has faded with the passage of time, but what she thinks of now is how many did not survive the war. 

It won’t be so for Mary and Wayne. She is Muggleborn—and officially, she has disappeared into the Muggle world, ostensibly fleeing the war. Wayne remains in the Ministry Auror Corps, a crucial contact for the Order. They can’t be officially married, but it’s one golden afternoon when they stand together in the living room, handfast, and say their vows to each other, Toby looking on curiously from the mantle. 

Mary sends her resignation to Weasley Wheezes by owl, but in a coded postscript asks if she can visit. It’s risky. The return message is terse, giving only a time and apparition coordinates. She finds that she is in the back room of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, which she knows for a fact is warded against Apparation. Fred admits, “We lowered the wards just for you, and only for a few minutes.” 

“I wish I could stay, but…” They nod. They know. What is there to say, really? Please, stay alive. When this war is over, I want to meet you on the other side, to hold you and feel your heart beating, to know that we still share the same earth, the same air, so that we can put this behind us, like the nightmare it is. I’m not ready to know what life will be like, without you here in my life. The twins hug her tightly, whispering, “Be safe.” She squeezes back tightly. “And you.” 

After she’s home, she finds a small bag with over 100 Galleons in her purse. Sneaky buggers.

Wayne visits when he can—in practice, twice a month if he’s lucky. They make love, frantically, heatedly, achingly slowly. They lie in bed, and dream of the future. He wants to have children, 2 or 3, and she can almost imagine them. Two girls and a boy, or two boys and a girl. They cook together, cozily domestic, pretending that war isn’t raging outside the safe house. They practice dueling, because even as they pretend, they both know that the war will come down to this, dueling wizard to wizard, matching the strength of your will and wand and seeing who will walk away the victor. Molly’s never had occasion to want to be an Auror, but even she knows that it is foolishness to pretend that she will not need to fight. She doesn’t really have any innate talent for dueling, really, but what she does have is time. She fills the quiet hours, when she is alone, practicing and practicing until she’s sure that she can cast in her sleep. It’s just as well. It may very well come to that. She jumps a little, every time the Apparition chime sounds through the house. The entry room is well warded, but even the strongest wards can be broken, or fooled. 

She only leaves the house under disguise, occluded and glamoured. Toby becomes used to her frequent absences. She charms his bowls so they are self-refilling. He’ll be fine if she’s gone. She wonders if he would miss her, if she doesn’t come back. She doesn’t dwell on these thoughts. She still receives orders, whispered by Patronuses or left in their communicating boxes. She cares for the witches and wizards and Muggles who find their way to her house, directed by the Order. With all the wounds she treats, she thinks wryly, that perhaps she should go into Healing, after. 

She wonders where Harry Potter and his friends are, if they are still safe (well, safe is relative, isn’t it. But without him…she doesn’t want to consider that thought). Ted Tonks shows up one crisp fall day, and stays for three days, recuperating. She binds up Lee Jordan’s arm and listens as he broadcasts from the Wireless, his voice clear and sure as if he were narrating a Quidditch Match. 

The worst news comes 8 months into the war. She has just come home from the shops, when the wards warn her of visitors. When she sees Wayne and Kingsley standing in the sitting room, her heart drops. Kingsley breaks the news to her, shoulders squared and eyes grave. She can not recall what exactly he said to her, but she remembers her ears ringing with the finality of the terrible news, how her knees had given way, how Wayne had gripped her arms as she screamed and fought him. Her mother is dead, tortured and killed by Death Eaters looking for her. She has never hates the war and magic as much as she does that night.

She can’t see her mother’s body (she reads it in the set of Kingsley’s face—even if it were safe, he wouldn’t let her see—it must be terrible, what they did. She must have…suffered). There is no funeral. Her mother’s body is cremated. Wayne brings the ashes to her, and holds her as she sobs. He stays for four days, the longest since the war began. She’s grateful to Kingsley for that small concession. She thinks the grief and guilt will wring her dry, but she can’t—won’t—let it show. She has thought her mother would be safe, squirreled away from London in Edenbridge, under a Fidelius. Instead, her magic and choices have only bought her mother an early grave. 

She will wake up, and there are moments when she doesn’t remember. There is a part of her that thinks that it’s not real. She never saw the body. Perhaps there was a mix-up, perhaps they went to the wrong house and it is some other unfortunate woman…but she knows. Kingsley does show her a photograph of the house, burned and gutted. After, she can’t really deny it longer. 

Her friends send condolences, in their own ways, though communication is risky.   
Lee Jordan names her mother in his terrible roll call of the dead. The twins send her a joke wand that turns into a white poppies. Gwen leads a group of Muggleborn refugees to her door, and long into the night, the two of them sit before the fire, hands intertwined, silent. Kingsley passes words to her. It is small comfort, but all she has. 

Everyone becomes an orphan eventually, but she never thought it would be so soon. Her father is long dead, taken by cancer during her third year, but they always knew it would come. Remission had lasted 7 years, every year a treasure. Her mother, though, had been strong and healthy. If only she hadn’t had this odd quirk of genetics, if only she had never come to Hogwarts, if she could escape this war, if only, if only, if only. 

She’s not sure how she makes it through the months, but the necessities of war-time consume her time. She channels her grief into anger, and spends every spare moment training. The war drags on. She thinks it will never end, this ceaseless time of fear, anger, sadness, hatred, and grief. But all things come to an end, and this war is no different.


End file.
